


Armagideon Time

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Gen, I'm setting it free, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), This has been sitting in my docs since I saw the movie because I'm miserable like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 16:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: The fight is over. They should be celebrating.Right?





	Armagideon Time

The exhaustion that had been tugging at the edges of Peter’s mind turns heavy after a while, once it becomes clear that the fight’s over and he really_ can _sit down now.

He sits, and doesn’t give a rat’s ass that he ends up in the dirt.

There are a lot of people here— a lot of badass-looking warriors with paint and different shades of blood smeared into their skin and hair, a lot of sorcerers with sparking fingertips and glowing weapons, a lot of aliens— Ravagers, Peter Quill had called the crews of rainbow-skinned leather-fetishists. His people.

Then there are the superheroes, of course. The Avengers, Captain Marvel, the Black Panther and the Falcon and the Winter Soldier and Dr. Strange— they’re all there too, save for a few notable exceptions.

They’ve taken Mr. Stark’s body away, hidden away in one of the tents erected by Princess Shuri’s people. There are a lot of tents, now, stark white against scorched concrete and ash and broken, twisted metal, filled with the dead and dying and the screaming wounded. Strange’s people are doing what they can to keep the survivors alive, just long enough for Wakanda’s doctors to stitch them back together, but they’re tired— they’re_ all _tired, and the rush of collapsing wizards being dragged in and out of tents tells Peter that he probably should hold off on asking for a ride back home, for now.

Not that the thought’s even crossed his mind. He can’t seem to think much of anything, right now, resigned to sitting and watching the grown-ups try and make sense of churned Earth and broken bodies.

_ Devastation, _ is the word he’s looking for.

Peter isn’t scared, anymore. He’s beyond fear, graduating past grief and pain to a single, overwhelming feeling. _ Horror, _ that’s the word his brain supplies for him helpfully. Horror and devastation, that’s all Peter knows.

Mr. Stark is dead. Mr. Stark’s dead, and the world is saved.

Mr. Stark hugged him.

Mr. Stark’s_ dead. _

Peter’s body is not responding to the overwhelming urge to cry. He can’t move, can barely breathe, but he’s alive, and that’s got to count for something.

Right?

“—der-man? Spider-man, hey, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Peter looks up, and a dark-haired man with dirt on his face and a red and black suit is kneeling in the mud next to him, his tired, lined face twisted with concern.

Peter just stares at him. The words _ I’m fine _ won’t come, and anyway, Peter’s never been that good of a liar.

Ant-Man— no, Scott Lang, Peter remembers, because it was in Tony’s files— must see it in his face, whatever_ it _is, because the next thing Peter knows, he’s being bundled up into Scott’s arms and lifted out of the dirt. Instinctively, Peter wraps his arms around him, but his hands shake too badly for him to get a grip on the strange, smooth fabric of his suit. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because Scott doesn’t seem like he’s going to drop him.

Peter’s face ends up mashed somewhere under Scott’s jaw, buried in the juncture where the Ant-man suit meets skin. The slick feel of blood and sweat against his cheek has him letting out a surprised, shuddering gasp, and when the smell hits him, close and intimate as it is, it’s like his body reboots, all at once.

Scott hides his face, pressing him further into his neck as Peter starts to sob, one hand tangling itself in Peter’s hair as he squeezes, trying to comfort him when there’s no comfort to be had, not now.

When Mr. Stark had hugged him, it had been a press of metal against his chest, hard and unyielding and so, _ so _ welcome, even if it had been a surprise.

This is nothing like that. Scott’s suit is soft, built to move with the body rather than in spite of it, the fabric paper thin and apparently seamless under his bare fingertips where he finds himself clinging to the man’s shoulders, body spasming with an agony that Peter isn’t sure is actually physical. His chest hurts. _ Everything _hurts. It hurts so much he can hardly stand it.

He just wants it to stop.

*.*

No one looks twice in their direction as Scott picks his way across the battlefield, Spider-man clutched to his chest like a broken toy. He’s not the only one screaming— there are echoes all across the field, wails of grief and helpless fury breaking the air like shattering glass as mud sucks at Scott’s shoes as he moves between twisted metal beams and broken concrete.

Mrs. Stark has taken charge of the tent city already forming on the outskirts of the field, stripped down to just a plain black undersuit as the blue metal suit she’d been wearing flies back and forth above their heads, ferrying crates of supplies through a portal Scott’s pretty sure leads to Wakanda and depositing them in the pile forming by the medical tents. Her face is streaked with sweat and grime, her hair pulled back in a knotted bun at the base of her neck as she flits between the Black Panther, Captain America, and the blonde woman who’d destroyed Thanos’ ship, cellphone pressed to one ear as she barks orders at anyone with their hands free.

She goes pale when she catches sight of Scott and his charge.

“Peter, oh my God—” She starts running, everything else forgotten.

“He isn’t hurt, I think,” Scott tells her as she reaches out to touch, wincing as Peter’s grip tightens in response to her hands, digging into the meat of his neck and shoulders. “I mean, he is, but— but not badly.”

Not as bad as others, at least.

“Rhodey can look him over,” Mrs. Stark says, her expression going blank as she pulls away again. “He’s in the tent— go. I’ll go find a change of clothes for him. He can take one of the empty beds inside.” She pauses. “And you.”

Scott flinches. He can’t imagine what he looks like, for her to be offering— after all, he can’t be the only one who looks like shit.

“I appreciate it, but I’m alright,” he says. “I’ll just—”

“Scott.” Mrs. Stark gives him a hard look. “You need to rest. _ You need to call your daughter.” _

Scott goes still. Cassie. He hadn’t even thought—

Mrs. Stark’s hand finds his elbow.

“Go inside,” she says, not unkindly. “There are phones you can use. Call her, tell her you’re alright, and get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

Scott listens to her because it’s easy, depositing Peter carefully on one of the half-dozen cots already unfolded in the tech-filled tent for War Machine to deal with before snagging a cellphone from on of the fold-out tables and collapsing onto another bed.

He’d made a point to memorize Cassie’s new number before going to find the Avengers. He dials it now, swearing quietly to himself as he taps it in with clumsy, fat thumbs.

It barely rings once before she picks up.

“Daddy?” she breathes.

All of a sudden, Scott can’t breathe.

“Yeah, Cas.” He swallows. “It’s me. Is your Mom—?”

“Yes.” There’s a strange note in her voice, excitement, joy, and a little bit of disbelief. “She’s back, and Jim, too.”

It’s like— it’s like there was a over-inflated balloon sitting in Scott’s chest, and her words were the needle. His insides burst and spatter across the inner walls of his chest, his stomach dropping with the overwhelming strength of his relief. He feels his shoulders slump, his spine bend until his head is almost between his knees.

“Good,” he says. “That’s— that’s really good.”

“Daddy?” Cassie asks. “Are you okay?”

Scott takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I’m alright,” he promises, because sometimes a father has to lie to his daughter. “Just tired. I— I’ve got to stay here for a little while longer, but then I’m coming home, okay? I’m crashing on your Mom’s couch, and I’m gonna sleep for a week.”

“Where are you?” She asks. “Daddy? We can come pick you up, if—”

Scott can’t take it. He hangs up without saying goodbye, tossing the phone onto the blanket and hiding his face in his hands with a groan.

“Lang, you alright?”

He jerks.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m cool.” He gives Rhodey his best smile, which, considering their current circumstances, isn't very good. “How’s Spider-man?”

Rhodey watches him for a moment, but thankfully, he doesn’t comment, turning back to the boy now curled up on his side with his back to them.

“He’s concussed,” Rhodey says. “But nothing needs stitches, and he hasn’t broken any bones.”

Scott sighs.

“That’s good,” he says. “A few concussions never hurt anybody.”

“Careful— the NFL is always looking for spokespeople,” Rhodey says mildly. Scott glances up, catching the ghost of good humor as it flits across the man's face. “The kid needs his rest, and I’ve got stuff to do. Can you watch him?”

Scott looks at Peter. He seems even smaller now, even more like a child than before. He can’t be older than, what, fifteen, sixteen years old?

He’s a_ baby._

“Yeah, I can watch him,” he says, straightening with a wince. “No probl-aye-moh.”

Rhodey nods, patting him bracingly on the shoulder.

“See if you can’t catch a few zees yourself,” he says. “Whatever happened to you, you look like absolute shit, Lang.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t look too hot yourself.” Scott looks away. “I’ve got it. We’ll be fine.”

Rhodey watches him for a moment.

“Okay,” he says simply, his hand slipping away. “Holler if you need anything— somebody’ll hear you.”

Scott nods and after another beat, Rhodey goes, untying the flap of the tent and letting it fall shut behind him.

The sounds of the aftermath are muffled by the walls of the tent, just enough for Scott to pretend he doesn’t hear them. He closes his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath as he tries not to cry.

It’s over. They_ won. _ But as he looks across the tent at Spider-man’s slender, teenaged shoulders, he can’t help but think that… that maybe it isn’t enough.

Well, what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?


End file.
